


CoD oneshot requests

by Natallee_Kae



Category: Call of Duty (Video Games)
Genre: Angst, F/F, F/M, Father and Son, Female Bell - Freeform, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Male Bell, NB!Bell, One Shot Collection, Other, Romance, Torture, fem!Bell, male!bell, non binary Bell, one shot requests, prompts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-13
Updated: 2021-01-23
Packaged: 2021-03-17 11:53:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28724658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Natallee_Kae/pseuds/Natallee_Kae
Summary: I'm taking one shot requests (can be submitted in the comments or anonymous poll.)Can do:-romantic pairings (F/F, M/F, F/M, non binary characters etc)-platonic-both SFW and NSFW (depending on how extreme the prompt is)-fluff, angst, literally ANYTHING-AUs (not genderbent :( sorry)-NO READER/SELF INSERT/OC FICS (  i'm sorry D:  )More info in fic
Relationships: Dimitri Belikov & Bell (Call of Duty), Nick Reyes/Nora Salter, Russell Adler & Bell
Comments: 28
Kudos: 29





	1. information

Welcome!

this will be a collection of one-shot prompts. If you would like to make a request, feel free to either leave a comment, or leave your request at https://www.surveymonkey.com/r/FNFJX5G anonymously. Keep in mind that if you submit it on the poll website I won't be able to confirm with you If I'm going to actually do it or not (it'll be a nice surprise.)

Please don't hesitate to make a suggestion, I am extremely flexible and understanding, I only stop at what makes me uncomfortable (and that's not very much.) If it's a NSFW you might have a lower chance of me doing it but still give it a try. I don't do non-con UNLESS it's an incident that occurs before the fic starts. 

I can't do Zombies because I haven't played/seen any of that unfortunately (I can barely understand that story haha) D: but I can do:

-World at War

-Modern Warfare 1,2,3 (not the 2019 MW sorry)

-Black ops 1,2, Cold War (F, M or NB Bell) 

-Ghosts

-Advanced Warfare

-Infinite Warfare


	2. Male!Bell and Belikov (father&son)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> request by anon
> 
> Pre-campaign where Belikov is Bell's adoptive father, and Bell's true father is Reznov.

Artyom Belikov wasn’t happy or sad in Moscow. There were not many words he could use to describe it. Snowy? Boring? Good enough? There was food. He had a home. His father had work. Nothing too exciting for a 12 year old. He went to school which he felt indifferent about. They learnt about all sorts of things about the strength of their country. They read books about Lenin and watched films about Lenin and wrote stories about Lenin. Just so he could walk home from school and pass four ‘Lenin’ streets and a gargantuan stone statue of a Lenin standing boldly upon a pillar and raising a powerful hand into the air.

The floor was covered in snow. Was there a place where the floor was not covered in snow? It seemed mythical. Where would the poor people get their water from? He was lucky he didn’t need to worry about that. His father, Dimitri, could pay the bills. He had a high position in the State Security Committee. He believed it was head of security. His father was obsessed with security, always worrying about Artyom. It was getting extremely frustrating. He would never let him leave the house at night without him pulling him close.

He would never talk about his work. He would come home in a crumpled Soviet Officer uniform with a worn look on his face and drink a glass of vodka right in front of him. Of course, Artyom was used to adults drinking around him. It was practically natural for others to get drunk, and he would eventually grow up and do the same. _It must be a hard job_ , Artyom thought, _for him to get so tired_.

But no matter how many questions he asked, his father would never answer. He never thought any of it. It was probably for security reasons. What if Artyom decided to go tell all his friends? He could accidentally spread something and cause the Soviets to lose.

The Soviets _had_ to win. There was no other option. Though, whenever he mentioned this to his father, he would give him an unsure smile and change the subject. No one else he encountered reacted anything less than enthusiastic or proud when the topic came up. Maybe his father was just worried for the Soviet Army. He did have more knowledge than anyone else, as head of security.

His father wasn’t very smooth. He would ramble and laugh and joke. While work was off limits, he would talk about everything else. It was mostly sport. Artyom didn’t care for sport but his father liked it so he conceded and participated in the conversation despite his limited knowledge.

Artyom loved his father, but he knew there was something off. Something that he wasn’t being told. Whenever Artyom would bring up the subject of his mother, he would stutter and change the subject. There were many subjects that would create this reaction. Artyom began probing, deliberately poking around at subjects his father would be uncomfortable answering.

“Papa? Was it you who named me Artyom?”

“Of course, son!” Dimitri laughed hesitantly, as if he wasn’t sure if the laugh was appropriate. “It was me. The name of my favourite football player, Artyom Ivanov!”

“You named me after a football player, papa? Are you seriou-”

“No! it was a joke!” He shot in immediately. “I named you after… I just liked the name. It means-“

“Good health. I know.” He recited. What a suspicious answer. The television murmured in the background of their tiny apartment. His father took a gulp of his vodka.

“Are you my real father?”

Dimitri stopped in his tracks and choked on his vodka, before slamming down the cup.

“What? Why would you ask that?” He shouted in shock. A serious expression. That was certainly a reaction Artyom wasn’t expecting. All the other times, his father tried playing it off. This time, however, he was dead-serious. Not even trying to avoid the question. That raised red flags in his head. Why was this the question he couldn’t even pretend to answer? It couldn’t be true, could it? Surely there was a misunderstanding.

“I didn’t mean… Papa, I was just asking out of curiosity, I’m not- I mean.” He couldn’t take the look on his father’s face, and left the kitchen table, heading to the bathroom. It was a tiny room and it smelled horrible. The floor was boarded with rough wood planks. He didn’t plan on hiding out for long. However, he noticed a creaking sound under his feet from a particular floorboard. That board had always creaked, but a sudden spark of curiosity lit up within him. Crouching down, he dug his tiny fingers into a gap in the boards He managed to lift it up, revealing a small, dark space, large enough for a folder, with documents spilling out of it.

Pulling it out, Artyom analysed it carefully. It was ripped and worn. He opened it carefully. There were what seemed to be a hundred documents as well as photos. Most of them were in Russian. Artyom scanned them, coming to an obvious conclusion that these were secret documents. They were connected to the military or to the government. They had to belong to his father. No one else lived with them and it seemed so much like what his work would entail.

Surprisingly, there were documents in English too. Artyom couldn’t read English, but the idea of his father hiding English documents was odd. Picking up one in particular, he noted a blue logo with an eagle. _An eagle was an American symbol, right?_ Was his father working with Americans? The very idea made him shiver. Was his father a spy for the Americans? He better put these away. If they were found…

The door swung open. His father was there, looming over him as he sat on the floor surrounded by papers.

“Artyom!” he said fearfully. “You can’t see these!”

“Papa, please stop lying to me. Why do you have American documents?”

“You can’t know these things, Artyom. It’s my work.”

“Why are they hidden under the floor?”

Dimitri didn’t have a response so he continued.

“Are you my true father, Papa?”

“You can’t know these things. You are too youn-“

“No! I need to know. I’m not a baby anymore. I deserve to know!”

“I know. You’ve grown up so fast, my beautiful boy. But there’s a reason you can’t know. It’s to protect you.”

Artyom stood up angrily, holding out a document.

“Tell me or I tell. I tell _them._ ” ‘Them’ didn’t mean anyone in particular. It could be a teacher, a police officer, a store owner. Anyone Artyom could talk to who would send his father off for being a spy. He wouldn’t actually do it, obviously. He would never. But it was a persuasion tactic. A look of terror appeared on his face.

“Artyom…” he said, betrayal in his voice. “Okay. I will tell you.” He cleared his throat and thought long and hard how to structure his words. “His name was Victor Reznov. You were born in a prison camp. Viktor had been in there for 18 years already. He organised an uprising and many people escaped. Your mother did. She was carrying you. She was my friend. She ran to me and stayed here and gave birth 8 months later. She didn’t… she died having you.”

“My father died, didn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“Why did you lie to me?”

“If you had found out your dad had been a war criminal…”

“ _You’re_ a criminal. You’re a traitor. You deserve to be thrown in prison!” He yelled, backing away, still clutching a document.

“Artyom. I have something very confronting to say. It may make no sense, but you have to believe me. Our country is a very corrupt place. A very corrupt government. It is dangerous. I’ve made a decision. The right decision. It was very hard for me, it’s true. The soviet government will do more harm to the world than the Americans. The Americans want to save it.”

It was as if he was speaking another language. It was nonsensical. Nothing of it made any sort of sense. He thought he could trust his father. But it turned out his father was a traitor to the country. Well, not really his father. He had lied to him all his life about everything.

But Artyom didn’t want to hate him. He wanted for things to be the way they were. Could he pretend things were normal? He could try.

“Okay papa.” He said shakily, dropping the documents to the floor and hugging his father’s waist. “I believe you.”

“You’re a good boy, Artyom. You’re my son regardless. I wouldn’t have anyone else as my son. Now go sit down, I will clean up this mess.”

* * *

It was July, 1977. Artyom was meeting with someone. This someone was unknown but he had come into contact with him through a friend of a friend of a friend. It was a secret meeting. It was an empty street. A clean shaven man in a dark, heavy coat walked up casually and stood nearby. “Artyom.” He introduced himself curtly.

“My name is Perseus. You have chosen the right path.”

Artyom nodded. It was time he went down the right trail. Dimitri had tried to stop him. Tried to begin the downfall of the great nation. But he failed. He was going to do his country proud.


	3. Nick Reyes/Nora Salter romance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> suggestion from user Evan  
> Infinite Warfare Nick Reyes and Nora Salter romance

Just outside of the bridge, was a hallway. There was the pipe that seemed to always be broken and the same two people who were always there fixing it. There was the sparkling clean linoleum floor and the metal walls covered in exposed wiring and piping. Nick walked down this hallway constantly, but never stopped to examine it. 

He had come out of quick discussion in the bridge and was waiting for Nora to exit to. She had some other business clearly. Nick usually had a busy schedule, but this time he had an hour and a half before a briefing with a group of marines. As the captain, he had responsibility of an extended list of assets. It was a massive job which left him with almost no time.

The heavy, metal door screeched open. It was Nora. She smirked at him and nodded her head casually.

“Reyes.” She greeted.

“Salt.” He replied back. She shoved his shoulder lightly and laughed teasingly. “Boats had things to say about you.”

“About _me_?” He said with pure disbelief, gesturing to himself. The two began walking towards the cafeteria area. “Kidding. What did she say?”

“She said you were her type. She asked if you were “free.” She’s totally in love.” She snickered mischievously as if she already knew Nick’s thoughts on this confession.

Nick groaned in annoyance. Boats was a fine person. Pretty even. She was nice. But there was _no_ chance he was going to date her. He didn’t want to be rude, but he didn’t like her. If she asked him out, he would have to tell her no, and that sounded like a horrible experience.

“Well. Guess who I’m going to be avoiding as long as we are on this ship.”

Salter feigned shock. “You aren’t into her?”

“Salt. I have news for you.” Nick stated seriously. “Kashima likes you.” Reyes shook her head sadly and facepalmed.

“I know. He has hit on me three times in the last 72 hours.” The two arrived at the cafeteria and sat down. They weren’t eating anything, they were just on a break before their next errands.

“So I assume you’re going to say yes when he asks.”

“Shut up, Nick. Are you kidding me?”

“It’s okay! I’m just fucking with you.” He snorted.

“Yeah. Me too. I lied.”

“Huh?” Nick asked confusedly. “About what?”

“Boats. She didn’t say anything about you. I made it up.” She awkwardly scratched her face and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. Nick raised an eyebrow.

“You moron!” he laughed, before realizing that Nora looked serious. He cleared his throat. “So why’d you say it?”

She looked flustered, but a look of confidence flashed over her face. She spoke strongly. “I wanted to see how you reacted. I just wanted to see if you like her or not. Boats told me she thought you liked her. I wanted to make sure.”

“What, are we in elementary school again?” he snorted. “I don’t like her, if you’re so concerned.”

She smiled. “I knew it.”

“Why do you care?” Nick pressed. Nora looked bashful again but she didn’t look away.

“I- Nick. We’ve known each other for a long time. I’m scared we’re going to split apart if one of us gets a partner. I know I shouldn’t care about that. We have our own lives to live and I shouldn’t stop you from living yours. I just can’t help but be scared.”

“I would never leave you for anyone.” He insisted, and reached over to place his hands on hers on top of the table. She looked down at them and smiled, looking back at him. She turns her hands over and intertwined their fingers.


	4. Soap, Price and Gaz interview Adler

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> suggestion by user Spence070 
> 
> Taskforce 141 futher their investigations on Imran Zakhaev by questioning an elderly Russel Adler
> 
> (takes place in 2010, Adler is around 73)

Soap hadn’t known Price for very long, but he knew when Price’s anger was a front, and when it was real. In this current moment, it was real and pure. Fiery and red, but contained as much as he could. It was a real show. He would laugh if it didn’t ruin all momentum they had gotten going for the past hour.

Russel Adler had been an agent in the cold war. The head of a team in the CIA on the tail of a Soviet named Perseus who had established an international spy-ring with the aim of overthrowing western power, paving the path for Soviet control of the world. It was crazy shit. In the end, the team hadn’t gotten him, but they had thwarted his plan to launch nukes, essentially fucking the Soviets over for good. _Why did it always revolve around nukes?_ Soap pondered rhetorically. Well, the world hadn’t ended yet, thankfully. That was all he knew.

Adler was now an old, grumpy man, like most men turned out to be. It was almost reassuring to Soap that no matter what a person accomplishes in life, they all would wrinkle the same. Adler had a nasty scar on his left cheek. In his younger years, according to his photos, the guy had been pretty fashionable. The jackets were snazzy. The scar looked pretty badass. Overall, not bad looking.

The Adler in front of him looked like a husk of his younger self. His body aged, but his mind stayed sharp as a knife. He was trapped. And god was he tough to crack.

The reason 141 were involving Adler at all was due to his involvement with a certain Imran Zakhaev. Adler’s team did lots of investigation around the KGB, in which Zakhaev was a member of. Soap didn’t know why Adler was the one they needed to talk to, but someone higher up had ordered it, and Price wasn’t telling him anything. As far as he knew, Adler had the most information to give. He also had the most shade to give.

So Soap, Price and Gaz were inside Russel Adler’s tiny house to ask him about Zakhaev. 

“Why the fuck are you asking me, again? Taskforce 153 or whatever the fuck it was, and you’re here about some random fucker name Imran Zakhaev.” Adler said roughly as he sat on a chair at the kitchen table. The others were also on chairs. Price was 5 minutes off picking his up and throwing it across the room.

Price shook his head, calming himself. He tried to talk coolly. “Your team was involved with the KGB, remembe-“

“I’m not senile. Of course I remember.”

“Great. So your team would have researched Soviet officials, including Kravchenko, Belikov and Zakhaev.” Price stood up and paced. Gaz looked irritated but stayed quiet. Soap stayed quiet too, uncertain of what to ask. Price seemed to have it under control. For now at least.

Adler grumbled. “Don’t fucking ask me. I didn’t read every single piece of fucking intel about every member of the KGB. The only person I could tell you about it Belikov, that fucking stupid piece of shit. I mean, he followed through with his promises, but his stupid smirk, I’ll tell you…”

Gaz gave Soap a look. They still weren’t getting anywhere and they seemed to have lost the old man.

Price took a deep breath. “Okay. Belikov. He worked with the CIA as a double agent. He would have had close contact with Zakhaev on a regular basis. Do you think we could get in contact with Belikov?”

Adler laughed. “Belikov? Probably got a bullet to the back of the head as soon as he got us into the KGB headquarters. Or worse, most likely. If he’s still alive I doubt you’ll be able to get contact with him. Hadn’t heard a word from him since he smuggled us in.”

Price groaned and sat back down. Gaz took over the questioning.

“What about your other team members. I believe you had a member of the MI6 with you.”

Adler gave him an incredulous look. “I know why you’re asking about her. You saw her photos, I bet. You men are all the same.”

“You’re a man too.” Gaz responded without much emotion. Adler only grunted in response. Soap wanted to laugh badly. He didn’t. Instead, he piped up.

“You had a ex KGB on your team.” He said strongly but quietly. Adler’s head snapped to his direction, looking at him dead in the eyes. He looked serious without any hint of boredom or frustration.

“Bell.” He nodded curtly.

“Well then. They would know Zakhaev.”

“It wasn’t like that.”

Price slammed his hands on the table. “Then what was it like?” He yelled.

Adler shook his head. “I can’t tell you,” he stated firmly. “It’s complicated. Bell was a special case.”

“So they hit their head real hard and can’t remember anything about their time in the KGB?” Price prompted sarcastically.

“Actually not too far off. It’s something like that. Again, can’t tell you.”

“Is he alive? Can we talk to him?” Gaz asked.

Adler looked away, a wistful expression of regret on his face. “No. He’s dead.”

“Great. Just great. We’ve wasted our time here.” Price stood up to leave. Soap grabbed his arm.

“No. We have a job to do here.” he said bluntly to Price. It was a fairly innocuous statement but it made Adler flinch. This caught Price’s attention. Soap was curious but he didn’t press. Soap carried on with the questions. “So, this Bell. What were their involvement with the KGB? Were they a higherup? What info would they have had?” Adler sighed, relenting.

“Bell wasn’t ex-KGB, they just thought they were. Have you heard of MK-ultra?”

Price perked up and Gaz looked at Soap oddly. Soap straightened his back.

“The mind-washing thing? Yes, rumours, mostly. Weren’t sure if it was real or not.”

“Bell was a test subject for it. They were an agent of the guy we were hunting. The poor fucker got shot and left to die so the CIA pieced him back together with a new identity to help us. They made Bell ex KGB but they ever got involved with the KGB beforehand. It was a false memory. So no, you have no luck with Bell unless you’re looking for info on Perseus.”

The room was silent with shock until the silence was broken by Gaz.

“That’s wild, mate.”

“Aye.” Soap agreed.

Price sighed audibly. “Sure you’re not senile? Sounds like a whole lot of bullshit. Brainwashing? Let’s not waste our time here.”

“I can’t make you believe me, but just know you’re barking up the wrong tree.”

Soap shook his head, “So you can’t help us then?”

Adler paused, “Well. I guess you could try and contact the MI6 member you were talking about.”

Gaz groaned, “So you were just being an asshole about me bringing it up and now you’re saying talking to them will be useful after all?”

Adler laughed in response. “I was fucking with you. Park probably has information for you. Get into contact with _her_ and you’ll have loads to go off.”

“We’ll see what we can do.” said Gaz, getting up to leave. “Thank you for your time.”

Adler grunted. “Just wait until _you_ get to seventy and kids are questioning _you_.” He got up to see them out. “Good luck with your mission,” he said.

The three left the house and moved on to try and find their next lead.


	5. NB!Bell & Adler angst

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Request by user Evan  
> Adler and Bell angsty friendship. Bell and Adler get captured after the good ending. Bell vows to get Adler out of there alive.
> 
> Didn't mean for this to be so long but enjoy haha (trigger warning, mild description of torture)

Bell was tied up in a rectangular room. They estimated five by six meters wide, a little smaller maybe. The walls were concrete or cement. There were nothing on the walls except a single line of exposed piping that ran from the top corner on their left to somewhere beyond their peripheral vision. There was a terrible smell of mould and the air was heavy with dust. No windows. A single lightbulb overhead casting a morbid, yellow ray over them. The room was dim.

A man was in front of them to their right, guarding a green, metal door. The door had a slot in which you could barely see out into the hallway. People walked by and Bell counted them. Thirteen, fourteen. The fifteenth with a rattling, metal trolley carrying what could have all sorts of torture devices. The sound of the trolley approached then retreated down the hall. Then no one.

The man was masked and in a soviet uniform. It wasn’t Perseus. Perseus was taller based on the file. This guy was short and stubby. Bell could probably take him out if they weren’t restrained. The man had an SMG in his hands. It was holstered but ready. Probably not a good idea to make a move. The man received messages in Russian from his radio occasionally.

Bell had a gunshot wound near their hip. It wasn’t bleeding anymore but the old blood coated their clothes. It stayed only a dull ache if Bell didn’t move. They _couldn’t_ move so the pain stayed mild. The worst pain was the sting of knowing who gave them the wound in the first place. It was funny that they were stuck inside a soviet prison, but the most real damage done to them was by their former teammate from the CIA only an hour before. Was it betrayal they felt? Or just a dumb irony.

They wouldn’t be rescued. The CIA was done with them. A broken toy that had done its job. Unrepairable, thrown out. Their fresh coat of paint stripped. The ugly mechanisms underneath exposed. They were scrap metal now, and they were about to be salvaged.

Bell didn’t move an inch. There was no point angering the guard. They noted that their arms, legs and feet were tied up with a rope, possibly a synthetic fibre like nylon or a polyester.

The sixteenth passed. Seventeen. Eighteen.

Nineteen stopped at the door. A stagnant pause which Bell could not tell if it actually occurred in the real world, or was just a horrible moment of realization in their mind. People say that birds stop singing before a storm. The same could be said for Bell’s thoughts in that moment.

The door scraped the floor and created a deafening, ear-piercing screech. Bell felt an instinct to cover their ears or cover their mouth in fear that they would be sick. Nineteen in the doorway waited as the man moved aside. Nineteen stepped forward. Nineteen had an implement in his hand. Nineteen stepped closer. The implement was a metal stick and it was raised above Bell. The birds were silent.

You’d think that eventually after enough torture, what one would priorly consider to be a painful blow, becomes benign. That assumption is false. Pain isn’t a curve on a graph. Pain can’t be defined by numbers or statistics. Pain is what happens when someone places their hand on everything you considered yours and wringing it of life. Your body becomes theirs. Your thoughts become real estate to be taken. All happiness you ever felt becomes irrelevant, even mocking.

Nineteen wasn’t a person. Nineteen was a beast. The grim reaper. The monster under a child’s bed that their parents reassure them is imaginary but in fact is as real as anything and is _hungry._ Nineteen was brainless. He acted upon nerval impulses, all of which were to inflict pain. His primal instincts allowed him to detect when Bell was feeling any sense of relief and crush it to dust.

The fourth dimension isn’t time; it’s _pain_. Pain defeats time in all situations. Time is taken out of the equation when pain is felt because all a person wants to do is stop the pain as soon as possible.

But Nineteen wasn’t asking them for anything. Nineteen wanted to break Bell and there was nothing they could say that would make it stop.

The pain was endless.

Time wouldn’t flow forward.

Had it been a minute? An hour? Had a single millisecond even passed?

Bell had stopped pleading long ago. The words wouldn’t come. They weren’t a person anymore. They were just a being of pain. Only pain. Only one emotion, one thought, one desire. Them and Nineteen were similar in that way. They both only wanted one thing.

Nineteen wanted to hurt, Bell wanted to stop hurting. Why was it that only some people get what they want?

Bell couldn’t tell when their body had stopped being beaten and been transported elsewhere. _What time is it?_ Bell helplessly pondered as they lay on their back. They couldn’t see a thing. Well not physically. They’re eyes still flashed with bright colours which would not stop no matter how hard Bell held their eyes shut. So they opened them as wide as they could to survey their surroundings.

It was pitch black. Bell didn’t move from their position. They could feel a wall with their feet. They wanted to outstretch their arms but already knew that doing so would hurt badly. The floor was cold and uncomfortable. But Bell was relieved to be away from Nineteen. From the torture. They decided that as soon as they could, they would sit up and determine how large the room was and where the door was. That seemed like important information. For now, they would stay still. Maybe they would pass out and die, and that didn’t seem like too bad of an option.

An amount of time passed. Or maybe it didn’t. Bell felt like they may have fallen asleep but couldn’t tell. Their body was tender and bruised all over, they could tell this just by how their skin felt pressed up against the floor. Their muscles ached. Carefully, Bell moved their left arm out. It was heavy. How had they ever lifted their arm before? It felt like the weight of a car packed into a single limb. They persisted.

The wall was closer than they expected. Their fingertips collided with the cold surface and collapsed back down to the floor. They tried the same with their right arm. The opposite wall was further than the other but not far. They had to shift their body slightly over, and with their arm outstretched, could feel the other wall. So the room was around a meter and a half wide.

The next step was determining the length. They stretched their arms above their head, but still couldn’t feel the wall. They groaned and released their muscles. Was it worth this effort? Maybe the best course of action was to sit tight and conserve energy.

It didn’t even matter where the door was. They would find out as soon as it opened, and when that happens, there would be more urgent matters to think about.

Bell was scared. Maybe because of more torture, or maybe the looming question of: how long would they keep them in that room?

Suddenly Bell noticed that they were clothes-less. It instantaneously became freezing cold. They began to shiver and uselessly covered their body in their arms. Was that their breath they could see? Impossible. It was too dark. Must be a crazed hallucination.

It turned out that the door was by Bell’s head. This information became available when it swung open. Light flooded in and it stung their eyes. There was a figure. Nineteen?

It didn’t matter who it was. Every single person that Bell could possibly encounter in that godless place was Nineteen. They all were the same. Sadistic torturers with the itch for causing pain.

Nineteen grabbed Bell by the arm and dragged them up. They were strengthless so they fell right back down. They were a husk now. The parts taken from their body, the only thing left being the outer casing. Nineteen pulled them up again, but decided to drag their body out into the hall. Bell closed their eyes and felt another pair of hands assist in leveraging their body.

And then they were in another room with dirty walls and puddles of mud water lining the floors. Nineteen and Nineteen number two threw Bell into a back corner. They stumbled and fell onto the ground, the back of their head hitting the wall painfully. Bell could see themself now. Their entire body covered like paint in splotchy black, brown, yellow, and blue bruises. They were like fireworks across every single stretch of skin. It was sickening. Bell retched but nothing came up.

It was still cold, so they curled up into a fetal position, which also to cover Bell’s naked body. It was shameful and degrading. Bell wanted to disappear. They could feel the two pairs of eyes on them. Watching, analysing. Enjoying the view of an empty shell stripped of all useful parts.

They wished that one of them would get bored and shoot them.

Another person walked in. Nineteen number three carried a chair into the room. Nineteen three left and came back holding a limp body. The body had a black covering over its face and seemed lifeless. It was put onto a chair and Nineteen three and two began tying it up. _The body must be alive,_ Bell thought, _for them to be restraining it_.

Nineteen three left and the other lifted the head covering, revealing its identity.

Bell screamed and flailed and reached out. They crawled towards it and was kicked back. They crawled again and was kicked back again. The body lay unmoving. Bell yelled louder. Nineteen laughed. Bell sobbed.

“What did you do to him?” Bell cried as loud as their lungs would let them. Unsurprisingly, no answer came from the standing men. Nineteen two circled the body, and in one quick movement, delivered a punch to its face.

“Adler!” Bell shrieked.

Adler woke. Bell could see the moment of confusion, then terror, then realization, then anger. He hadn’t seen Bell yet and was focused on the two guards. He had a bloodied nose and a black eye. A cut on his cheek was dripping down his face.

“Fuckers!” He shouted furiously, pulling at his restraints. He frantically looked around and his eyes landed on Bell. A look of terror flashed upon his face. “No!” He yelled,” Bell!” flailing even harder.

Bell didn’t know what to do but cry. They were humiliated and ashamed. Adler could see everything. Their bruises, their broken body and their weakness. That they’d given up. They’d gone soft. They’d allowed themself to be broken. The guards laughed. And now Adler was going to be hurt too and it would be Bell’s fault.

“Я убью тебя!” Adler shouted in Russian. Bell knew enough Russian to know that it meant ‘I will kill you,’ which was certainly a brave thing for him to say while in the position he was in. “Bell, are you okay?” He yelled concernedly while worriedly taking note of their colourful skin. Bell didn’t respond, but looked down ashamed, pulling themself into a tighter ball.

One of the Russians laughed, “Американцы, бедные идиоты. Ты мертвец.” Bell didn’t understand the whole sentence but caught the words ‘Americans’ and ‘idiots.’ “но не раньше, чем вы почувствуете боль.” He continued. The last word they could understand was ‘bol’ and it meant ‘pain.’ A pit opened up in Bell’s stomach.

Nineteen pulled out a cleaver out from his belt. Adler rattled his restraints and cursed and yelled. Bell closed their eyes, entering a state of fear paralysis. Nineteen’s footsteps echoed across the room and they came closer to Bell. They didn’t look up.

Nineteen continued in English with a thick accent. “You can save your friend. But you must suffer for him.” Bell sobbed into their knees and held themself tightly.

“Don’t do it, Bell!” Adler demanded.

“It’s not your choice!” One of the Russians barked.

Bell was familiar with pain. They knew what it was like to catch a baton to the kneecap or a scalpel to their thigh. They were ever familiar with bullet holes and airborne shrapnel. They had breathed in teargas, experienced broken bones. Drowning. Burning. Dislocation. 

But Bell had been betrayed before. Betrayed by the very man tied up in front of them. They knew _that_ type of pain. That feeling of utter sadness that comes from abandonment. Bell was not going to become the person that inflicted that kind of agony. And not upon Adler. Adler didn’t deserve it. He had only done what was best for the entire world and humanity. He cared about people. All people. Bell had been the opposite. So it was Adler that deserved to live. Not Bell.

They would die for Adler. They would take the worst torture. And maybe they would die in the process and that would be a good thing.

“Don’t hurt him.” Bell breathed out, finding that it was impossible to project loudly. “Save him. Do it to me.”

“NO!” Adler screamed, floundering and shaking desperately. Bell had never seen him so enraged. So riled up. The chair scraped and screeched against the ground. “Do it to _me!_ Don’t you fucking touch them!”

“Adler, stop.” Bell whimpered. “They’ll get angry.”

Adler clenched his fists. “They should get fucking angry! They’re not going to lay a finger on you.”

“It’s not your choice. I’m going to get you fucking out of here. I’m already hurt, there’s no point both of us getting hurt.”

“They’re going to kill you, Bell.” Adler hissed.

“Better you than me.” Bell looked at the Russians and with a determination that they didn’t know they could muster, said “Me. Not him,” pointing to themself with a weak hand. All of the guards laughed.

“Very noble of you. Well then.” In a rough flash of movement, Bell was grabbed by multiple hands from their limbs and torso. They could hear Adler howling in the background but that was no longer their focus. Their heart was racing so fast that they felt like they could pass out any moment. They were laid splayed out on the floor on their stomach, the muddy water coating their body. Quickly and roughly, their left hand was grabbed so that it was spread in front of the rest of their body. They wanted to pull it back but it was held there and they didn’t have the strength to resists. Bell wept harshly and lay stiffly in anticipation, trying to prepare themself for the moment of pain. Trying to focus on anything else.

What else could they think about? They had no happy memories and if they did, it was still impossible to keep their mind focused. Bell’s mind flickered to the safehouse. Back to their left hand. To Lazar and Sims and Park. Park’s body was laying dead somewhere. Back to the hand. There was movement around them. Adler was screaming. The Russians were laughing. Talking. The cleaver was nearby, Bell could just sense it. Was everyone else okay? If they had gotten to Adler, could they have gotte-

The ugliest sound of flesh and metal echoed across the room.

Bell wailed until they could no longer make a sound. Focus on anything but the hand. Anything. Anything. The feel of the air on their back. The water on their stomach. The sounds of Adler hollering and the Nineteens whooping in delight and amusement. Anything but the burning fire of intense agony that consumed their limb. It was impossible because the pain was acute and attention hogging. Bell could not drag their mind away from it. They weren’t going to look at it because it would make it worse. They couldn’t where the damage was exactly. Did they cut a finger, their wrist, the forearm? Was their hand gone entirely?

It wouldn’t end, but Bell could no longer emit anything but quiet whimpers.

“Bell.”

Was that Adler? It was too fuzzy to hear. Who else could it be?

“Bell!”

It must be Adler. Did it matter? The voice was so distant. Maybe Adler had left the room. Their head felt light. They might pass out. That sounded pleasant actually.

“Stay with me, Bell.”

Adler was telling him to stay awake. Bell didn’t know if they could. They would be able to stay awake for the next ten seconds or so. They began to count down.

10, 9, 8…

“Bell, stay awake.”

7, 6…

“Don’t fall asleep.”

5, 4, 3…

“I need you to stay with me, Bell.”

What was that? Adler just said something but they had forgotten what it was as soon as he said it. Where were they up to again? Bell couldn’t remember what the next number was.

“Look at me, Bell.”

Look at him? They didn’t want to though. And they didn’t feel like they had the strength to even lift their head up. Maybe the Russians had chopped their head off instead and that was why they couldn’t lift it. But maybe just one glance. Adler was smart. Maybe looking up would stop the pain.

So they opened their eyes and lifted their head to look at the direction of Adler. It was blurry. The blob in front of Bell seemed to be the one talking to them.

“Just look at me Bell. Don’t look at it.”

It? Oh, their hand. And then Bell remembered their hand and the pain and wanted to look. To assess. But they couldn’t keep their head up and it fell to the floor again. It was quiet. Were the Russians there still? Maybe they had left.

“I’m going to scoot my chair over. We don’t have long. Don’t fall asleep.”

Bell heard movement and wanted to look again. They didn’t. They couldn’t be bothered moving anymore. The hand didn’t hurt as much anymore. Everything seemed to be fading now. Even the pain. Bell angled their head up in the direction of their hand. They couldn’t see details but they could see the blood pooling out from somewhere.

“Stay with me. I’m going to saw this rope with the edge of the chair.”

Bell heard the sound of the rope against metal. It took a while. Bell estimated around 5 minutes. Then the sawing stopped and Adler grunted in effort as he tried to break the rope where he had created a weakness. Bell heard the snap and a flicker of hope sparked within them. Adler muttered to himself reassuringly.

“Good, good, good, good….”

He got to work on his other ropes. A cacophony of the sound of rope, fabric and metal filled the room. Soon enough, Adler’s feet hit the ground and he ran towards Bell and rolled them over onto their back.

“You’re okay. I’m here.” He spoke. They didn’t feel okay. His hand was bleeding.

“My hand...” They forced out weakly.

“The ring finger’s not important anyway.” Adler responded as he ripped a piece of cloth off his shirt and bandaged Bell’s hand.

“Oh.” Bell wanted to throw up again. Then they remembered they were naked and quickly covered themselves up with their good hand.

“It’s okay. I’m not looking. I’ll give you something to cover up, just don’t hurt yourself. We’re going to sneak out. Stay here. I’m going to wait by the door. As soon as a guard walks in, I’ll take them out. I’ll give you the clothes, I’ll take the gun and we’ll make it. Stay with me.”

“I’m supposed to be saving _you.”_ Bell snorted half-heartedly.

“You already did.”

Adler took position. It was a long while before anyone came in. Bell counted the passersby. One. Two. Three. Four…

“You’re slipping.” Adler warned quietly. Bell stopped counting and waited patiently. The umpteenth person stopped at the door and rattled with the lock. Bell held their breath. Adler readied.

Bam. It was fast. A punch to the face, a grabbing of the gun and a snapping of the neck. Easy. Adler was familiar with takedowns. He closed the door silently and dragged the body to Bell. He helped them dress in these new clothes and examined the gun.

“Perfect,” he said. “Can you walk?”

“I don’t know.”

Adler grabbed their should and lifted them upright, momentarily letting Bell stand without support. Bell supported themself on the wall and tried to walk with surprising success. They limped a few steps. “I can do it.”

“Okay but don’t push yourself. I’m going to go first and I’ll tell you when to go. I’ll knock on the door twice.” Adler opened the door a crack and looked both ways for a couple seconds, then scurried out. Bell felt a pang of fear. The odds were against them. How big would the building be and how would they know where to go?

Bell’s finger lay on the floor. They didn’t want to look. They could smell the blood.

The door banged twice. Adler came back in.

“Come on.”

The two navigated the empty hallway with Adler leading.

Adler whispered, “I found a phone and I called for help. They have our location, so we’re going to find a place to hide safely until we get saved.”

Bell was as used to recovery as much as they were used to injury, whether it was hospital care of makeshift first aid. After 5 hours of sleeping, Bell woke up in a hospital bed covered in bandages to learn the diagnosis on their injuries. As discovered earlier, their ring ringer had been severed. They also had 2 broken ribs and a dislocated shoulder, and an infinite number of bruises and cuts at risk of infection. As well as Adler’s gunshot wound which felt like a distant memory.

Bell was thankful, relieved, and tired. They didn’t know why people hated hospitals. Hospitals were confirmation that you were alive. That you had been saved. Bell wanted to thank every single nurse or doctor that tended to them. And when Adler came in, they wanted nothing more than to hug him because he had saved them. Must be the drugs.

“You’re a real fighter.” Adler said seriously. He had a few bandages on but nothing too bad. Bell’s lips upturned in a half smile that looked more like grimace.

“Thanks. And thanks for getting us out.”

Adler nodded distantly. “Thanks for taking the blow for me. You shouldn’t have. I mean, I don’t know why you did. After…”

“Do you regret it? Shooting me.” Bell asked solemnly.

“Fuck yeah. It was a mistake.” Adler shook his head angrily. “I didn’t want to, but _fuck_ , I just thought it was the right thing to do. And then they got me. I can’t believe they did, but they did. And I felt like an idiot for leaving you there to get captured like that and I hated myself for it. I’m so sorry, Bell. You shouldn’t have had to go through that for me. Or at all.”

Bell eyes glazed over at the memories. “They beat me with a metal rod. Everywhere. I thought I was going to just, pass out from the pain. But I didn’t want you to go through that. You deserve to live.”

Adler took Bell’s hand in his and held it hard. “ _You_ deserve to live. It was my fault they got you in the first place.”

“It doesn’t matter, they would have killed me anyway. They probably would have killed you too. The only thing I accomplished was buy us some time.”

“It was valuable time, Bell. I owe you.”

“Not another person owing me.” Bell laughed then coughed. “You’re a shit shot. You didn’t even kill me when you shot me. You’re getting sloppy.”

“You’re lucky I’m feeling nice right now.” Adler jokingly warned. “You mean a lot to me Bell. I shouldn’t have done what I did, but I’ve learnt. You’re not just useful, you’re a friend. And the others want to see you again. They miss you.”

“I miss them too. And you’re a friend to me too, Russ. You’re an asshole but so am I.”

“You’re one of us. Don’t ever think otherwise.”

“Thanks. Are you gonna let me sleep now, asshole?”

“Fine, asshole.” Adler smirked, squeezing their hand and letting them rest.


	6. Fem!Bell + crew messing around

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Request by user SAN SANDRA  
> Bell gets addicted to video games and the crew is very dissapointed in her

“You’re bad at this.”

“ _You’re…_ bad.”

“Wow. What a comeback.”

“Bell! Sims! Stop messing around in there.” Adler called from his desk to the back corner of the safehouse where Bell and Sims stood next to an arcade cabinet.

See, Bell had a problem. She couldn’t help her burdening curiosity which led her into every single nook and cranny of the safehouse to find anything that would take her away from her actual job. Did she possibly have an attention disorder? Maybe. But it was harmless (until Adler started to harm her out of fury.)

And in a mysterious dark nook, was a grey metal door with a pin code lock. That was right up Bell’s alley. The perfect amount of intrigue and distraction to satisfy her needs.

Bell, being the absolute genius that she was, decided to ask around first. It wasn’t so genius after all, because no one seemed to know who locked it, what the code was, or what was in there. However, in retrospect, if someone _did_ know the code and _did_ know what was behind the door, they would have been smart to lie about their knowledge. If this was true, then that person severely underestimated Bell’s useless persistence.

She began with 1234 because obviously that’s what you start with. Bell was a pin cracking genius, she knew her stuff. Next, she went through a bunch of prominent dates. The starting year of Carter’s presidency? No. The formation of the hit 60’s band ‘Blue Öyster Cult’? Unfortunately not. JFK’s assassination?

Boom. Easy.

And behind the mysterious metal door was a computer (boring) and an amazing clean, bright and working arcade cabinet. Bell thought the challenge of opening the door was amazing but the real prize was the _behind_ the door!

The problem was, however, that the arcade cabinet was _too_ good of a distraction. With the other things she had found to distract herself in the safehouse, there was some sense of boredom that would bring her mind back to her work which would lead to actually become productive. With simply snooping around, she could at least pretend she was looking for something.

But playing video games would suck all her focus out. Amazing.

Bell found herself competing in the virtual grand prix against herself for ten minutes straight before her absence became suspicious. It wasn’t Adler that found her. It was Sims. Thank god. Sims wouldn’t snitch.

He didn’t snitch, but he sure did annoy her with his snide remarks on her flawless skills. Oh well. Win some lose some.

Why was this gem hidden so far back in the safehouse? It was like finding a diamond ring in the attic of your home. Had it been here all this time?

And _god_ was it addicting. Bell had been playing the game _Barnstorming_ for a total of 5 minutes and had already realized that ‘fun’ would not be the right term if she played for a minute more. It was her damn competitiveness. Against herself. Good grief.

Footsteps approached. Oh no. It was definitely Adler. No one was able to somehow emote anger within their stride and posture like that guy. You didn’t even need to look at his face to tell that this guy was edgy as fuck.

“I swear to god.” Adler stood in furious shock. Well, Bell assumed this to be true. She wasn’t looking at him. All her attention occupied by the plane she was controlling. Gotta fly through the barns but avoid the birds and towers. Difficult stuff.

Sims looked disappointed. Partially in Bell, partially at himself, and definitely at the general scenario. He shook his head amusedly.

“Bell’s found her new toy.”

“It’s not a toy. It’s hand-eye co-ordination builder.” She muttered while still focused on the screen, her hands moving wildly around the joystick and buttons.

“It’s a game.” Adler groaned. He was also disappointed.

“Shh! One sec.” Bell commanded. Weirdly enough, the people around listened and the room was silent apart from the blips and bops from the machine speakers.

She was getting close to beating her high score if she just concentrated. Just weave between these birds and zoom through the barns and fly above that tower… and hit the tower.

 _FUCK_ she thought, and also said out loud accidentally. She noticed Sims cringe at her volume and Adler tap his foot irritably. They didn’t appreciate the art of the video game. She apparently caused a pretty large ruckus because someone else was interested.

Those footsteps were so recognisably Park in their strong confidence but tranquil pace. There must have been a bug going around that made everyone look disappointed, because Park’s expression soon matched Adler. However, hers was less of anger, and more of pity and amusement.

“Oh Bell. You’ve sunk so low.” She wailed dramatically.

“Bell,” Adler began, “Shut that thing off and get back to work. We have a j-“

“Hang on, one more try. I swear.”

She swore, but she didn’t guarantee, because one try turned to two, and two turned to three. She clearly had beginner’s luck on her first try. She’d do it though. She just needed to really concentrate. It would be nice if Adler decided to (kindly) shut up though.

Sims stepped forward to look at the screen closer.

“You know, it says you can boost if you press the top button.” He spoke. Bell had somehow missed this vital piece of information. Sure enough, she could boost which sped things up quite a bit.

On her next go, she _easily_ beat her score.

“Fucking hooray.” Adler muttered. “Get back to work please.”

“Wait. That wasn’t my best. If I had known I could boost then I would have gotten a much bigger score. Give me another go.”

“This is ridiculous.” Park said and walked away. Sims followed silently. Adler stood there in a growing fury. Suddenly, Bell ideated a thought.

“Have a go, Adler.” She stepped out of the way and gestured to him. Adler’s anger subsided and turned into a confusion. She gestured again to encourage him to step forward.

He did. 

Adler was a natural. He beat Bell’s score on the first go and Bell was too impressed to be angry. After his go ended, Adler stood there in silence. Bell let out a fake sigh of sadness.

“I guess we’re going to have to go back to work though. We’ll never know if you’ll be able to beat your score.”

Adler looked back at Bell.

He said “…just one more go.”


End file.
